


The Trouble with... Pumpkins

by Morvidra



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Pumpkins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morvidra/pseuds/Morvidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ll wager, Master Dwarf,” Legolas said, staring at the horizon, “that I could carve more pumpkins than you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trouble with... Pumpkins

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Khazad October. Day 31: Gimli

It had been, as so many things were, the fault of the hobbits.

Originally, at any rate.

Gimli remembered the conversation quite clearly. He and Legolas had been sitting with Merry and Pippin in the ruins of Isengard, eating Saruman’s food, drinking his wine and smoking his pipeweed. And given their circumstances, it had been quite natural for the talk to turn once more to the Ents, and the devastation they had wrought on Isengard.

“…and I say, Merry! We’d better not let old Treebeard see us with the pipeweed, remember!” Pippin gestured grandiosely. “Plants, you know. They could be related!”

“Yes, that’s the third time you’ve made that joke, Pip. I think you’ve had enough of that wine,” Merry said, confiscating the flask and thoughtfully drinking half of it to save his younger relative from further intoxication.

“Besides,” he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “you’d better hope Treebeard never hears about you being the pumpkin carving champion of the Shire! How many pumpkins d’you reckon you’ve cut up over the years?” He fixed Pippin with a steely gaze. “Butchering them, you might say.”

“Merry, I do not butcher them--!”

“The poor little pumpkins!” Merry had declaimed, making it fairly obvious that he too had been drinking a little too deeply. 

“Now, Merry…”

“Their heads cut off, their innards pulled out…”

“Merry, you stop that!...”

“Pictures carved through their skin…”

“Merry, I’m warning you…”

“And then displayed as a trophy, with fire lighting their poor remains…!” Merry’s speech finished with a squawk of laughter as Pippin tackled him, and they fell off the low wall they had been sitting on. Sounds of Pippin’s vengeance floated over said wall to Gimli’s ears.

“What is this pumpkin carving?” Legolas asked idly. “Carving meat, I have heard of, but vegetables? Surely they do not require such effort to eat?”

“I would not know,” Gimli said around his pipe. “Dwarves are not fond of vegetables, my friend. Most of our recipes are designed to disguise them behind the meat.” He shrugged. “Hobbits are gardeners – no doubt they place more importance on vegetables. Although I thought an elf would be more familiar with their uses?”

Legolas smiled. “Again I must ask: do you mistake me for an elf of Rivendell? We of Mirkwood are fonder of eating fresh meat than we are of fruits and leaves, Master Dwarf!” 

Two dishevelled hobbit heads reappeared over the wall. “Did we hear right?” Merry asked incredulously.

“Do you really not know about pumpkin carving?” Pippin asked, in a tone of equal disbelief.

Gimli shrugged. “It seems we do not, young Peregrin. Should we have?”

Pippin’s eyes were wide. “Of course you should have, Gimli! Why, it’s part of the Shire’s most important festival every year!”

“You’re only saying it’s the most important because you usually win prizes at it,” Merry interjected.

“On the contrary, my dear Merry; I always win prizes at it!” Pippin said smugly. “It’s the harvest festival at the end of Winterfilth, you see,” he told Gimli and Legolas. Gimli wasn’t sure about the elf, but the information meant absolutely nothing as far as he was concerned. But Pippin had only just begun his utterly confusing explanation, as he unleashed a positive barrage of information on the hobbit festival (which seemed to involve bands of young hobbits visiting as many nearby dwellings as possible and leaving baskets of sweets outside the door). This was followed by a description of the noble and most ancient sport of competitive pumpkin carving, together with a blow by blow account of how he had won his most recent title.

Gimli’s eyes had glazed over by the time Aragorn hailed the four, and he staggered to his feet feeling dazed, not just by the quantity but the speed of Pippin’s talking. 

“It’s the finest competition ever!” was Pippin’s final comment on the subject, shot over his shoulder as Merry hauled him away.

“Pip, they don’t want to know.”

“If they wanted me to stop, all they had to do was tell me!”

“If only it were that simple…”

The hobbits’ voices faded as they scurried over to where Aragorn and Gandalf were waiting. Gimli shook his head to clear away the fog that seemed to have settled on his thoughts, and stretched his arms over his head. Legolas had already sprung lightly up, and was stroking Arod’s nose gently.

“Are you awake, Gimli?” the elf gently teased. “Hobbits have many fine qualities, but I sometimes feel their tongues must be akin to their feet – large in comparison to the rest of them.”

“You may be right, my friend,” Gimli said ruefully. “And mark you, Merry and Pippin have grown even larger of late, so perhaps they must speak even more to catch up.”

Legolas laughed, and gracefully mounted Arod. He stretched down a hand to Gimli, who, grasping it, made his way into the saddle. 

“It is very hobbit-like, also,” Legolas remarked as they rode after the others, “to make vegetables into a competitive sport.”

“Ah, now, you cannot catch me out so easily,” Gimli said. “I did not sleep through Pippin’s entire lecture, you know – I distinctly remember he said pumpkins were a fruit.”

“A point to you, indeed.” 

There was a short pause.

“I’ll wager, Master Dwarf,” Legolas said, staring at the horizon, “that I could carve more pumpkins than you.”

“Is that so, laddie?” Gimli glanced at his friend. “I think you’d be disappointed if we put it to the test.” He paused, thoughtfully. “And I’d hate to be taking your money.”

“If there is coin to be lost it will not be mine,” replied Legolas, a gleam in his eye that Gimli knew was matched in his own expression.

“Well then, when all is finished in our quest and those of our friends and companions, we shall take time to carve pumpkins together. And you will see a little dwarven craftsmanship,” Gimli added with a smirk.

\---

It was in the autumn of the following year – a full eighteen months after the quest had achieved its aim – that Legolas and Gimli found themselves able to fulfil their wager. The months after the destruction of the Ring had been hard for both their peoples, and Gimli had been hard at work helping the teams restoring the parts of Erebor and Dale that had been damaged in the siege. The winter had been a hard one, as food supplies had been severely depleted. The year that followed, however, had brought the blossoming of every tree. As they made their way south, the harvest being gathered looked to be a crop of a size and quality that would enter legend.

The two friends had returned to Gondor at the invitation of the High King Aragorn, to spend the winter months in the southern city. Legolas had been overjoyed to see Ithilien once more, although as they passed through he had maintained a running commentary on the improvements he hoped to make to its vegetation – to which Gimli had made listening noises, while mentally planning his settlement at Aglarond. 

They had, however, both noted the presence of pumpkin vines, laden with fruits large and small. Once settled in Minas Tirith, Legolas disappeared one day, returning after dark with a secretive smile and refusing to answer any of Gimli’s questions until the next day, when he led Gimli to a small room near to their suite, and proudly flung open the door.  
Pumpkins met Gimli’s eyes – pumpkins of all shapes, sizes and colours. They were lined in rows on the tables, and stacked in piles on the floor. The only surfaces that did not contain pumpkins were two benches in the centre of the room – one of which, Gimli noted, was the right height for a dwarf to use.

“A little over-supplied, aren’t we?” Gimli said mildly.

“I did not wish you to feel that the competition was unfair,” Legolas retorted. “Perhaps we will not carve all of them, but this way there is a choice of pumpkins for each of us.”

“Aye, there’s enough for the whole palace to join in the competition.” Gimli raised his brows at the elf. “When shall we compete, then? I doubt me that these will keep fresh indefinitely.”

“I thought – tonight? After we have dined with Aragorn and his court, for it would be impolite for us to be absent.” Legolas grinned at Gimli. “Besides, we must choose our weapons!”

Gimli’s eyebrows climbed even higher. “Well, ‘tis easy to see that I am beginning with an advantage. Why, laddie, a craftsman speaks not of weapons, but of tools!”

“Knives are knives,” Legolas said impatiently, “and we will see tonight who has the advantage.”

\---

That night the two friends faced each other, knives in hand. Their faces were solemn.

“Your last chance to back out, my friend,” Legolas said. “Elves have a natural affinity with plants – I am clearly the favourite here.”

“Ah, but these are vegetables, and you said woodland elves were not so familiar with them!” Gimli retorted.

“They are fruit, my friend – do you recall nothing of our instruction by the good Master Took?” chided Legolas. “My memory is quite clear, so I foresee no difficulties here.”

“And I foresee none either – since dwarves are natural crafters, and this is a task requiring precision.”

“Then let us begin,” Legolas said, smiling. “Remember, each pumpkin must be first hollowed out , then a face carved into one side, and the lid replaced on top.”

“Understood and agreed,” said Gimli.

Each grabbed a pumpkin from the nearest pile, and placed it on their respective benches. Legolas had the knives he had carried into battle; Gimli, a set of jeweller’s tools and a kitchen carving knife. They set to work.

When Gimli finished his first pumpkin, he stared at it in dismay. It had collapsed on one side, due to his removing too much of the interior, and the lid no longer fitted on top. Besides which, the face he had carved seemed to have three eyes. He glanced at Legolas’s efforts, and was slightly relieved to see that the elf had accidentally cut his pumpkin in half down the middle while trying to carve the nose.

Legolas huffed in frustration, and, looking up, met Gimli’s eyes.

“It is more difficult than I thought,” he admitted.

“Aye, and it takes longer than I was thinking,” Gimli agreed.

“The next will be easier,” Legolas said determinedly, reaching for another pumpkin.

The next pumpkin was, if anything, worse. And by the third, both tempers were wearing thin.

“I thought – you said elves – were good – with plants?” Gimli puffed between blows at his pumpkin.

“This isn’t a plant,” Legolas said through clenched teeth. “This is a hobbit joke. Oh, for--!” He bit off a curse as his knife slipped, and the lid he was slicing off curved sharply downward.

“What of yourself, Gimli?” the elf demanded. “Do you find this difficult?”

“Dwarves are natural crafters,” Gimli said, laboriously carving an eyehole. “With stone, or wood, at any rate,” he added. His second eyehole caused the pumpkin to break apart, and he swore. Legolas snickered.

Gimli scowled at the elf. Without thinking, he grabbed a handful of pulp and threw it at Legolas.

There was a sudden silence. Legolas looked down at his tunic, which was now decorated with stringy pumpkin innards. He stared at Gimli, eyes wide and lips pursed.

“Ah—” Gimli began. He got no further before a gob of pumpkin mush hit him squarely in the mouth. He hadn’t even seen the elf pick it up! Wiping his mouth disgustedly, he realised that most of the missile had landed below his mouth and into… His eyes narrowed.

“Not the beard!” Gimli’s cry echoed through the chamber as he seized a pumpkin in each hand. Legolas ducked as the pumpkins exploded like shells against the wall behind him. He came up wielding his own pumpkins and grinning from ear to ear, although his blond hair was now dripping with orange gunk. 

Battle was now fairly joined, and the two friends were evenly matched with their chosen weaponry. Legolas was perhaps slightly more accurate in his throwing, but Gimli could throw more at a time. Pulp, seeds, pieces of rind and sometimes entire pumpkins flew thick and fast, coating the hair and clothes of the combatants, as well as the walls, ceiling and floor of the chamber that contained them. 

Both elf and dwarf were laughing so hard that it was a wonder they could see to continue the assault, let alone shouting increasingly loud and creative insults at each other. It was small wonder that they did not hear the knock at the door, and so the first that either knew of Aragorn’s presence was when the door opened to admit the puzzled high king.   
It was unfortunate that this happened to be at the precise moment that Legolas ducked, and so the handful of pumpkin pulp Gimli had just thrown landed, with a squelching sound, squarely in Aragorn’s face.

There was a sudden, horrible silence. Gimli and Legolas stared at each other, at the room, and at the king. Gimli wasn’t sure about Legolas, but his own mind was calculating just how many diplomatic offenses they had just committed He wondered what the penalty was for an ambassador who inflicted bodily injury on the high king of all Gondor and Arnor.

Aragorn slowly wiped his hand across his face, scraping the pumpkin out of his eyes, although quite a bit still clung to his beard. He stared at his palmful of pulp for a long moment before raising his eyes, and even then he took a long while to look around at the pumpkin be-spattered room before his gaze met Gimli’s.

Aragorn’s face was carefully expressionless, but Gimli could see the twitching at the corner of his mouth that betokened the high king’s frantic efforts to keep from laughing. Gimli relaxed slightly – maybe they weren’t going to be tried for treason after all.

“Never did I think that the last battle between elves and dwarves would be fought on the soil of Gondor,” Aragorn said solemnly. He stared in fascination at the wad of pumpkin he still held. “And never would I have suspected that it would be fought with vegetables—”

“Fruit!” Legolas and Gimli interjected in unison. They glanced at each other. Legolas sniggered. Gimli snorted and bit his lip.

A slight shake was audible in Aragorn’s voice as he spoke. “Accept my apologies. It is fruit, of course. I would merely ask why—” and here his voice broke on a chuckle, swiftly suppressed, “—why the two of you are spending the evening flinging fruit at each other?”

“Aragorn, it was not so,” Legolas protested through his chuckles. “It was a competition – we wished to see who could carve the most pumpkins into faces.”

Gimli cleared his throat. “It is a hobbit tradition, you see,” he offered. “They have a festival at this time of year, and Pippin was most eloquent in his descriptions of their customs…”

It was at about this point that Aragorn lost all control over his mouth, and exploded into laughter, clutching the doorframe for support. At that, Legolas lost his own battle for sobriety, and collapsed into giggles, which made Gimli’s own laughter start again.

\---

Nothing more was said. Many years later, however, when Legolas and Gimli visited Minas Tirith once more at harvest-time, the feast included a dish holding a large carved pumpkin. The king blandly informed them that he had carved it himself, having had instruction from Thane Peregrin, a knight of Gondor.

At which remark the elf and dwarf were both seen to blush fiercely.


End file.
